Encounters of the unwelcomed kind
by SwedishSherlockian
Summary: In an attempt to escape the empty flat, Sherlock visits the mortuary where he encounters a slightly hysterial Molly.
1. Chapter 1

John had been gone for five days now and Sherlock was perfectly alright with it. Why wouldn't he be?

He was sitting in the flat, sipping his coffee with John's laptop open which he had lifted off his briefcase before his departure. Except for the faint traffic sounds, nothing was to be heard around him except for the sound of his own fingers, mindlessly tapping against the table. He was reading up on their old cases on John's blog. Except for his annoying habit to simplify everything, John was quite a good blogger. To say that his writings were interesting however, would be overdoing it, it had just become an easy way of passing the time while John's stayed with his parents for the week. Sherlock glanced at a grey jumper thrown carelessly over the chair next to him. Quite obviously not his. He recognized it as one of John's favourites and considered what could have made him leave it there. After a few moments he counted seven possible scenarios in his head, he then he tried to come up with an explanation to why he was sitting there, staring at John's jumper, while reading John's blog. He found a few, none of which he cared for. He slammed the laptop shut and put the coffee mug in the zink before heading into the living room to fetch his coat.

St Bart's hospital was lively and crowded and Sherlock hated it. Never before had he longed so for the companionship of cadavers. The stories they told him despite their silence was just what he needed to take his mind of his roommate, and if anyone questioned his presence there, he would just give a thorough and quick explanation to how the body under his fingertips was somehow related to the case he was working on with Lestrade. Not that anybody would talk to him. Even the interns knew by now that he was not to be addressed, he was there because he liked dead people. After all, he was a freak.

The final corridor leading to the mortuary was deserted and for some reason worse lit than the other corridors of the hospital. In fact, Sherlock couldn't see any kind of light source there at all, except for the moon shining through the small windows. The walls here had a solemn greyish tint which made him think of tombstones and ashy faces, but he didn't mind, death had never scared him, and it never would. He remembered the first time he had brought John here, during the 'A Study in Pink'-case, as he had called it on his blog. Sherlock had expected John to feel uneasy there, like Lestrade and the rest of the police force, but he didn't. His way of handling the death and violence they encountered on a weekly basis had always been one of the things Sherlock liked best about him; it was one of the many qualities that put him more on HIS side than on the rest of the world's. Sherlock realized his train of thought had once again strayed from the desired topic and he hurried towards the big door that promised his mind some serenity.

As Sherlock took in the familiar view of the metal slabs, the low ceiling and the long wall of shutters which held his objects of interest, he was surprised and somewhat disappointed to find that he was not alone. In the end of the room a lamp was lit, and he saw Molly sitting beneath it on one of the metal slabs. It didn't take his genius to realize that she wasn't working. The tight brown dress, high heels, makeup and tears were actually quite obvious tells. He knew she had noticed him, but either she didn't care or she was hoping that he would go away, for she covered her face in her hands and continued to sob uncontrollably. Sherlock hesitated. Should he turn around? Go back to the flat and find another way of distracting himself? Something told him no, definitely not. He walked up to her and hesitantly put his hand on her shoulder. No reaction. "Molly?" he tried. She stopped sobbing and looked up at him defiantly.

-"What do you want, Sherlock?"

-"What are you doing here?"

-"I actually work here. What's your excuse for visiting a mortuary on a Saturday night?" She snarled and made an undignified attempt at wiping away her tears. Even the front of her dress was wet, and the mascara gave her a slight zebra-like look.

-"Come on, Molly. We both know you're not working tonight." He smiled at her, for he knew from experience that it usually had the desired effect. Unfortunately, tonight was not a usual night.

-"Don't you dare try that with me!" She screamed at him. "Not tonight! Not now, not ever again, you understand? I'm done with you, I'm done with all of you."

Sherlock's mind was spinning. His theory regarding her behaviour was strengthened by her outburst but didn't explain why she had decided to curl up on a slab in the mortuary. He was still thinking when she stood up and strolled over to the large wall and placed a hand on one of the handles.

-"Well, Sherlock, are you looking for one in particular today or just browsing?" She said sarcastically.

-"What do you have in there?" He nodded towards the hatchet she was leaning towards.

-"Oh, he's just up your alley!" She said with fake cheerfulness. "Murdered, you see" Her present looks, situation and overall attitude made him feel uneasy, but he played along.

-"Let's have a peek then…"

Not a sound was to be heard as Molly opened the small hatched and pulled out the body. No screeching of metal against metal or whoosh of air when the object of their attention left its dark hiding place. She pulled back the blanket covering the body and they stood on either side of it, staring down in silence for a moment. Molly crossed her arms in front of her. Another person might have attributed the defensive gesture to the fact that she was staring down a dead body, or even the cold. Sherlock on the other hand, knew that she was simply bored. Her mind was miles away when she clinically quoted the autopsy report, which she clearly had memorized.

-"Male, 43 years of age. Found yesterday morning on a bench near Hanover Square. External examination showed no signs of trauma other than cause of death. Stomach contents revealed high levels of glucose, indicating his last meal was some kind of candy. Chocolate would be my personal guess, judging from the stains on his fingers. Toxicology report came up clean and I found no traces of alcohol in his system. Death was instant, a result of the bullet passing through his forehead and exiting through his occipital bone. It was not recovered, but the wound is similar to that of a small caliber. I also found gunshot residue, indicating that…"

-"… he was shot close range. Thank you, I know." Sherlock interrupted. He didn't know why he didn't want to listen to her anymore, maybe because he from a quick glance over the body knew most of this already. Maybe because he just wasn't interested. He had expected his mind to welcome a new mystery, one he could solve. Instead, all he could think of was John.

-"Of course you do!" She muttered angrily and pulled the white sheet over the body again. "There's nothing you don't know, is there?"

Sherlock hesitated. Was it really worth risking upsetting her again to find out why? Of course it was. His next words came slowly and he observed her carefully as she closed the hatch again.

-"I don't know why you're here."

Molly looked surprised for a second, then thoughtful.

-"I like it here" She finally admitted. "It's safe."

Months in the company of John had taught him a thing or two about irony, but he could detect none in her voice. She was dead serious.

-"Would I be right in assuming your date didn't go as planned?" He tried, putting his theory to the test while attentively observing her face, not to miss her reaction. His attention was wasted; he couldn't have missed it even if he had tried.

-"What on earth would you know about dates?" She exploded. "Have you ever tried any kind of social interaction without and endgame in mind? They're all right you know, Donovan and the others. You're nothing but a freak and I've been an idiot for thinking there could ever be something more to you!" She screamed loudly and her voice was so distorted through the tears that it was hard to make out the words.

Unfortunately, that didn't make them hurt any less. Sherlock had always liked Molly in his own way. Respected her? No, because he never realized that there was more to her than a silly girl with a crush on John(what other reason could she have for hanging around the two of them all the time?). That, more than anything, made a fairly good reason to make snide comments regarding her looks and intelligence, especially in the presence of John. Now, he felt like he had been making fun of a cripple, and now it was revealed that the cripple had been fully-functional all this time. Wait, what was that? Imagery? John must really be getting to me, Sherlock thought.

-"Well then, forgive me for questioning a fairly mentally stable person's decision to go and cry among cadavers in the middle of the night." Sherlock replied coldly.

She stopped crying and looked away, as if to hide her face from him. No use. He observed her intently and thought yes, definitely. Shame. Half a minute had passed before she had composed herself enough to answer him calmly.

-"I've been dating Gary for one month. He broke up with me a few hours ago. Said I was 'too plain for his taste and frankly, a bit weird'. Fucking arse." She commented hoarsely.

Molly was a strong woman. Sherlock had seen her examine bloated bodies, bodies beaten to a pulp and bodies of children without so much as flinching. Yet, she had never seemed weaker to him than in that last comment, and maybe that was how they were similar. They had their strength in all the wrong places. Or right ones, he added to himself.

-"Anyway, what are you doing here?" She asked him. Her face was almost dry now, but with the long dark streaks on her face it hardly made any difference.

-"I was bored." He replied absently as the grey jumper on the chair floated into his mind once more.

"Aren't you enjoying having the flat to yourself?"

It was an attempt to change the subject to something less loaded, and it failed miserably. She had struck a nerve without even meaning to or noticing.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" He said stiffly. He had meant the question to be rhetorical and it really had been, in his head where he had carefully selected the appropriate answer. It was only on his lips the words actually sounded like a question.

"Well…" She was frowning. "I don't know. Do you miss him?"

Sherlock stared at her. Did she know? Was she implying something? What was he supposed to answer? The truth? No, definitely not. Before he had the time to make an appropriately condescending comment he realized that she was smiling. His distress must have shown on his face.

-"It's quite alright, Sherlock. I suspected as much."

-"Please don't make assumptions about what I'm thinking, Molly. I'm afraid that's beyond your capability" He was trying to dismiss her, ridicule her, but he knew it didn't work. His insult only turned her amused smile into an empathetic one. Besides, his lies only worked when he really wanted them to.

Molly got up on her feet, still smiling. She stood in front of him, placing both her hands on his face, gently stroking his cheekbones.

The physical contact should have made him tense up, but it didn't. Actually, he could feel his shoulders relaxing and fought the urge to close his eyes for a second. How long had it been since he had slept? He couldn't remember the last time he had even bothered to try since John left. Anyway, he didn't have the energy to deny it anymore. To himself or Molly. He was just about to say 'I know it's alright" when she kissed him.

It had been a long time since someone really took Sherlock Holmes by surprise, but Molly Hooper did it. At first, her lips got no response from his own, but as he recovered from the shock he found himself meeting her in what was first an uncertain, then ferocious, kiss. While stroking her back, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, he made a quick evaluation of what was happening and decided that it was not a very good idea. Not that the realization made him stop of course. His curiosity and the warmth emerging from her body made it impossible. Also, the physical contact was strangely comforting. Who would have known.


	2. Chapter 2

The blood in Sherlock's body may have been redistributed to other places than his brain at the moment, but he could still guess where this was going.

Not that it was his first time. He could still remember his one, awkward and embarrassingly failed attempt at sex in college. The incident had mostly been a spur of the moment kind of thing; it was his curiosity more than anything that had put him in bed with his roommate, Temperance. To be honest, it started out quite well, but as events developed further and further so did Sherlock's curiosity. Not knowing when to stop or at all being able to, he eventually pushed too far and she said no. Passionately, to say the least. Having had his thirst for knowledge in the area fairly quenched, Sherlock never felt tempted to try again. The memory of Temperance's hurt, disgusted eyes staring at his body in disbelief might have had something to do with it too.

He knew this time was different because this time, his brain had for once in his life absolutely nothing to do with it. His movements were fuelled by pure want.

They were standing on the middle of the floor with nothing to lean on except each other. Sherlock didn't have to bend down very low due to Molly's ridiculously high heels and the fact that she was trying to climb him like a tree. His hands were running up and down the full length of her legs and with sudden courage, he let his fingers slip in under her skirt. She gasped and her kisses grew deeper as her hands clung on to his neck for dear life. They soon began to realize however, that this couldn't continue with the two of them in a standing position. Deciding to the initiative, Sherlock picked Molly up and carried her to the slab. He spread his coat across the cold metal and put her on the edge. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled his body against hers. Feeling her fingers leave his neck, Sherlock glanced down and found them fiddling with his belt. Even though the sight scared him a little, it still made him grow harder against the fabric.

His trousers being completely open and Molly clasping him gently through his pants, Sherlock felt that it was time that he relieved her of her undergarments. His fingertips sensed a small, smooth piece of cloth between her legs. As he leaned forward, she leaned backwards enabling him to tug it out from beneath her and eventually push them off her without removing her shoes. Sherlock really kind of liked the shoes. She pulled him against her once more and he was now practically shaking with anticipation. Molly edged her way out on the slab to minimize the distance between them, and Sherlock moaned as she locked her legs firmly behind his back. Sensing that the time was right, she pulled down his pants, and angled her body to welcome his while he pulled up her skirt.

Sherlock thrusted forward violently and looked carefully at Molly's face. Had he hurt her? Her eyes met his and she smiled at him. He decided no and kept on going. As he made his way into her, each time deeper than the last, absolutely nothing went through the brilliant detective's mind. He was peaceful and nobody, especially not John, was in his thoughts.

They now lay panting side by side spread across his coat. As their breathing slowly went back to normal, the silence in the mortuary became deafening. Sherlock felt a strong desire to say something, but he couldn't come up with anything. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

-"You're still gay though." Molly stated matter-of-factly.

Sherlock stared at her in shock and she grinned back. As he also came to realize the absurdity in the situation, he broke out in laughter, and Molly wasn't long to join him. While lying there, laughing and staring into the dark ceiling of the mortuary, Sherlock silently wondered how much this event had changed his view of the place. Things could get really awkward really fast if he got a boner every time he came to visit. He wondered what John would think if he found out about it. Would he be jealous? Angry for taking advantage of Molly somehow? Disgusted? It didn't matter, Sherlock would never tell him and he knew that Molly wouldn't either. Trying to shift his mind to an easier subject, he retorted.

-"And I can't help but agree with Gary, at least in part. You realize that I'm gay and your first impulse is to jump me? In a mortuary? A bit strange."

Molly was shaking so bad with laughter Sherlock wondered if she would fall of the slab.

-"Plain? Definitely not." He added.

She looked surprised. Sherlock felt relieved that he, after all the unusual things he had just done and said, could still surprise her. She smiled affectionately and stretched out her arm across his chest.

-"Do you love him?"

Sherlock stiffened; he only first admitted to himself that he had feelings for John minutes ago. The knowledge made him feel naked (although that might have had something to do with his lack of clothing as well) and exposed. To realize that Sherlock Holmes for the first time in his life was in love with someone might be more than he could take, especially when the person in question was his best friend.

Sensing his hesitation, Molly tried a different approach.

-"Do you think he feels the same way?"

-"You said you had suspected my feelings for John before this, haven't you picked up on his disposition as well?"

-"No," She said simply and Sherlock felt like he had been punched before she continued.

-"But I suspect this affects you more than it does him. After all, John has in all likelihood been in love before. Falling in love with your best friend would of course have a big impact on him, but at least he has some idea on how to hide his feelings. Besides, having to conceal his thoughts from your sharp eye on a daily basis does give him an advantage."

-"So what do you think I should do?"

Molly frowned and looked at him like he was stupid, which was very annoying.

-"Ask him of course!"

-"And how do you propose I do that?"

-"Well, could 'Welcome back, John. I have come to realize that I wish to jump your bones. Now, if you have no objections you should probably remove all your clothing before I tear them off' be something that you would say?"

Molly smiled and propped herself up on one elbow, watching Sherlock's reaction. He hadn't degraded himself so far today that he would honour that comment with a verbal response, so he simply raised his eyebrows and waited for her to continue.

-"No? Okay then, how about just wait for the perfect moment, tell him how you feel, and leave the rest up to him?"

-"How would I know what classifies as a perfect moment?"

-"You're right… Scratch that." She said thoughtfully before adding "You just pick one and make it perfect yourself."

Sherlock might have been the most intelligent person in London, but this made his head ache. He didn't know how he felt about John, so he had no idea what to say, and he definitely didn't know how to 'make a moment perfect' as the little woman on his chest so smugly proposed. More importantly, was it really worth jeopardizing his friendship with John for something more? What if he ruined everything?

-"What if he doesn't feel the same way?" Sherlock said, finally voicing his fears.

-"I don't know. Does it really matter? You can't keep this from him forever you know."

-"You just don't understand!" He replied, filled with frustration. "You don't understand what it would do to me if he rejected me. I couldn't handle it. How am I supposed to risk giving up a perfectly good life when the odds aren't even on my side? I mean, I have nothing that speaks for me, John has never done anything that would indicate a desire for more."

"It is you who don't understand" Molly answered patiently. "None of the things you just mentioned matter, odds and risks are irrelevant. The only thing you need to think about is the fact that John deserves the truth."

-"But that is where you are wrong! John deserves everything I can give him, but maybe that is more than the truth. Maybe it means me hiding a part of myself for the sake of his happiness, maybe it means my silence."

Molly didn't reply at first. From the corner of his eye he could see her thoughtfully chewing on her bottom lip, pondering what he just had said. It scared him, because he wanted more than anything for her to tell him that he was wrong. Even though the thought of him standing in front of John, bearing his soul for him made him shiver, it was nothing compared to the prospect of him living a life with John without ever being able to show his affection. Always having to avert eye contact in fear of the Doctor seeing the signs, always avoiding touch to keep his desire bottled up. Sherlock suddenly became acutely aware of the cold in the mortuary and he quivered involuntarily. He half expected clouds to appear from his exhale and he was grateful that Molly was so warm. He probably warmed her as well. Without even realizing, they had been protecting each other from the cold this entire time.

They had silently stared into the dark corners of the mortuary for several minutes when Molly finally spoke.

-"If the roles were reversed, would you have wanted John to tell you?"

There was something perfect about her simple question. Sherlock usually believed that even though polar questions usually provided him with excellent quantitative data, the amount of it was usually insufficient. Here however, amount of data was more than satisfactory.

-"Yes."

-"Have you decided what to do?"

-"I think so, yes, thank you."

-"No problem. Just happy that I could set the world's only consulting detective straight."

He looked at her. She was teasing him again. Even though he silently wished that she would stop that, he smiled a little.

-"I'm sorry you got dumped."

-"I'm not. I got shagged tonight and I'm pretty sure he didn't." She laughed. "Besides, nothing like some mortuary-sex to brighten your spirits, right?"

She was only being semi-sarcastic and Sherlock had to agree that it actually had helped. He smirked, which made her laugh even more.

-"Well, I'd better be off." Sherlock said, sitting up.

Molly nodded and jumped off the slab, heels hitting the hard ceramic floor with a loud unpleasant sound. She stretched and yawned.

-"What time is it anyway?" She asked and rubbed her still mascara-stained eyes.

-"Morning would be my guess."

As Sherlock started to button his coat, he suddenly remembered something that made him feel very uneasy. He supposed that if he were to ever find out, now would be the time.

-"Molly… Why do you spend so much time with me and John? I mean, our visits are usually not of the recreational sort. To be honest… I always suspected that it was you who fancied John."

Sherlock identified the two major emotions competing for dominance on her face as amusement and embarrassment.

Amusement won. She looked at him like he was stupid again. God, one time in one day was really enough.

-"Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit thick Sherlock?" She said smugly and turned around to face the door, probably in order to hide her face. He didn't know why, but he decided to let it go. She had convinced him that she wouldn't try to steal John away and at the moment that was all he cared about. As they walked towards the exit together, Sherlock felt almost serene.

As it turned out, Sherlock had been right. It was morning. He hailed a cab and went back to Baker Street, dreading the lonely silence, the empty armchair opposite his and the grey sweater thrown carelessly over a chair in the kitchen. His strategy of choice was to walk into the flat and sit down directly in his chair without looking towards the kitchen, and then play the violin to fill the silence until he was calm enough to go to bed and sleep the day away.

The plan was a good one, but since it was designed to cope with the absence of John, the presence of John made it quite ineffective.


	3. Chapter 3

John hadn't noticed him yet, which gave him a few seconds to compose himself. He relaxed his face and watched his flat mate pour himself a cup of tea. An emotion quickly identified as affection filled his entire body and Sherlock wondered how on earth he had been able to deny his feelings for this long. He loved him.

John looked up at him. He didn't look surprised at all; he merely smiled and took out another cup.

-"Would you like one?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded while he took off his coat and flung it over a chair. He didn't sit down though, the energy coursing through his body made him feel like running, not sitting down. Instead, he stood at the opposite side of the table with his hands in his pockets. He wondered silently if this attempt at a relaxed look convinced John or made him as nervous as he was. Sherlock was never self-conscious around John. As he watched John pour his cup, biceps flexing, he cursed the substances responsible for his frustration. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin.

-"Why are you home? I wasn't expecting you until Monday." Sherlock heard himself ask.

-"Got bored. Parents aren't as fun as they used to be…" John replied without smiling as he sat down at the opposite side of the table. "Mad that you can't have the flat to yourself anymore?"

-"No" Sherlock said immediately, before slowly adding "Glad to have you back"

Sherlock knew that this was a perfectly normal thing to say for a normal person. Which must have been the reason why it sounded so weird, coming from him. He saw that John was trying to resist the impulse to frown or raise his eyebrows at him. He probably thought that this type of non-Sherlock behaviour was to be encouraged, not questioned. The realisation actually hurt a little.

-"Thank you. Glad to be back" John was trying to smile. A lie?

It didn't matter where he was or who he was talking to, Sherlock always hated platitudes. They were exactly the type of social interaction that was invented in order to prevent people from being spontaneous, or saying what they were actually thinking. This was of course beneficial for the great mass of average intelligence human beings, but for him to be subjected to them? Degrading. What hurt even more was using them with John, because Sherlock never thought about his actions around him, he was always natural and so was John. He felt the fuzzy feeling originating from somewhere around his toes evaporate, giving way to frustration. It was obvious to both of them that neither one of them was saying what he really wanted to. Sherlock would later categorize frustration as one of those very dangerous emotions.

-"Why?" he said sharply.

-"What do you mean 'why'? Why wouldn't I be."

-"Because you're a grown up man living with a male flat mate who frequently steals your belongings to use in experiments, sets things on fire, plays the violin in the middle of the night, keeps body parts in the kitchen and fills the entire flat with his own rubbish without asking for your permission. Because you live with a flat mate who never cares enough remember the milk and who frequently drags you along on cases that doesn't really concern you but still puts you in danger. Because said flat mate is rude and rejects all forms of ordinary human interaction and is so self-centred that he doesn't even notice when you disappear."

Sherlock didn't say this with a big lump in his throat, he didn't scream and he wasn't angry. He sounded the same way he did when rambling facts and deductions while on a case; it was his eyes that gave away the importance of this speech. He had them fixed on John's, who stared right back.

-"From that I assume that you_ did_ notice my absence." John said "You've never asked me why I'm here before. What has changed?"

-"Nothing. I'm simply curious"

-"Well, I have my reasons"

- "I would very much like to know them".

-"I don't see why I should tell you. You know, I could ask you the same question. Why would the crazy antisocial flat mate want someone around messing up his experiments?"

-"I can't afford the rent on my own"

-"That's the only reason? It still doesn't explain why you would want me on your cases"

-"You are a Doctor. It is convenient to bring you along, you provide me with very valuable insights sometimes"

"So that's why. For no other reason than that. I am convenient… sometimes" John didn't look at Sherlock anymore; he didn't seem to be looking at anything.

Why did John look hurt? Because he had thought them to be friends and now Sherlock had told him they weren't? Or had Sherlock's words gone deeper than that? It was his turn to say something and it seemed to him that he suddenly had endless opportunities. The future of his and John's relationship depended on his answer and he knew what future he wanted. There was only one in which he could picture him and John together, for the rest of their lives. They could not live as flat mates, they could not even live as friends. The closer they got without touching the more pain he, and possibly John as well, felt. He wanted John to be aching for him right now, because if he wasn't this would be the last day they ever spent together.

-"I never said that was the only reason" Sherlock said while suddenly taking great interest in the pattern of his cup. "Which might bring us back to my question. Why are _you_ here?"

-"Where else would I be? I can't afford any fancy place either"

-"Still doesn't explain why you come along on all my cases" Sherlock was smiling now.

-"What else would I do? I'm out of work so I pretty much have to choose between sitting here, watching crap telly or joining you"

Sherlock's smile faded as he replied:

-"So, to you I am… convenient. That is why you're here"

-"Why else?" John said harshly.

Sherlock had been hoping that he could draw out some kind of confession from John before he had to make one himself. How could he tell the beautiful but now slightly angry man across the table why he really wanted him to be there? Why his jumpers caused him such distress and why he had slept with Molly? Why the thought of John leaving made him think of the medicine and the razorblades in the bathroom cabinet. Because if there was anything that his encounter with Molly had taught him, it was that life without John was not life. His existence no longer revolved around the cases, he had finally found a purpose.

He was going to do this.

-"Because I matter to you"

Sherlock didn't look away. As much as he felt like curling up under the couch in hiding, he was too afraid to miss John's reaction.

-"You do?" John looked sceptically at Sherlock, probably trying to call what he figured must be a bluff designed to fulfil some grand scheme of his.

-"Yes"

-"Well, if you say so… Do I matter to you?" John asked slowly. There was a tinge of amusement in his voice. He had no idea what Sherlock was trying to accomplish with this conversation.

-"Yes" He replied quietly, and this time he actually had to look away "Very much"

-"How much is 'very much'?" John said, still amused.

Sherlock felt hurt and frustrated. How could he make it clear that he wasn't joking, that this wasn't another one of his clever acts. Was there really any other way than the one he was about to undertake? He didn't think so. He forced himself to look into John's eyes once more.

-"Far too much. I never realised it when you were around all the time, I never took the time to ask myself how much it meant to me, your being here but… I think I love you, John. In fact, I know I do. "

John said nothing, at first. His expression slowly changed from amusement to fear and hurt. To shame.

Sherlock had never seen that look before, he was unacquainted with it. He had no previous experience that could tell him what John was about to say or do and none of his knowledge about body language was of much use because John simply froze in his position when he was hit with the gravity of Sherlock's words. All he knew about John's new expression was the pain he felt when he looked at him. An ominous feeling was growing in his stomach and his hands were shaking with anticipation. He felt as if he was about to be sentenced to death.

-"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I care for you more than I should but I'm not gay. I have a girlfriend for Christ's sake. "

Sherlock was suddenly empty inside. He had suspected this answer, dreaded it, but never really thought this it would be the actual outcome. Deep down he thought John loved him. He didn't.

-"And… you're sure? You won't change your mind?" He swallowed, preparing to have his final spark of hope extinguished.

-"I just… can't" John was fighting back his tears. He is serious, Sherlock thought to himself.

Well, that only left him with one option. He wasn't going to wait until whatever it was that numbed his senses right now wore off, he neither could nor wanted to. He glanced towards the bathroom.

-"Would you mind… leaving? I need to think" Sherlock asked.

-"Sure… when can I come back?" John answered while wiping away the tears that slowly had made their way down his face.

This actually isn't such a bad way to remember him, Sherlock suddenly realised. Crying over me, the last time we see each other, more beautiful than ever. Was that a weird thing to think? Probably, but when had he ever cared.

-"An hour or two should suffice"

John picked up his jacket and started heading towards the door, and without meeting Sherlock's eyes he was gone.

Without him there, he was alone. Before John, he was never alone because he knew of little else. With John, he was not alone because he loved and was loved back, even if to an insufficient extent. Without him he was alone. It didn't matter if he would come back, because Sherlock knew that he could never stay after this.

Sherlock therefor calmly walked into the bathroom, opened the cabinet and took out a razor blade. He sat down on the floor, back against the toilet. He looked at the shining piece of metal in his palm. There were two things in this world that could have given Sherlock Holmes' mind some peace, the first being John. Now that he had exhausted his first option, he had to resort to the second. He rolled up the sleeves of his purple shirt and then took a second to look around him at the white, sterile room. How ironic it was, that the most logical mind in London should fall victim to love and bleed out on the floor of a bathroom.

He cut, he slashed, he practically buried the blade in his wrists. The blood almost made him lose grip of it, but he managed. He threw it on the floor and leaned back, closing his eyes. It hurt, everywhere, but he knew that it would fade away soon. After all, wasn't that the point?


End file.
